


Contemplation

by sphekso



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:53:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4459088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphekso/pseuds/sphekso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has a little too much to drink in his motel room and his erotic thoughts wander to... not Molly, but Dr. Lecter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contemplation

The ceiling fan spun lazily on the ceiling. Will stared up at it, trying to focus his eyes on one of the blades as it traveled around the fulcrum. It didn’t work. He groaned and reached for his freshly empty glass and not-so-empty bottle of whiskey. He took a hard look at them, blinked a few times, and set the glass back on the side table. “Who needs it,” he grumbled, and uncapped the whiskey. He tipped it back, greedy swallows of warm booze sliding down his throat and into his belly. He paused a minute until the burn had subsided, gulped some more, waited, then did it all again.

Once the bottle was empty and he could barely see straight he slammed it down on the table. It spun on its end and crashed to the floor, echoing a thud as it hit the too-stiff-to-be-anything-but-filthy carpet. The Bureau was too cheap to shell out for anything more than a bottom of the barrel motel with leaky faucets and a flashing neon sign reading: MOTEL. _As if it could be anything else_ , Will thought grimly. The red light crept in through his curtains, blinking on and off, MOTEL and MOTEL and MOTEL and MOTEL, on and off and off and on and on and on and off…

He sat up in bed, sending the world spinning. He braced himself against the bed’s headboard until the whirlpool calmed to strong tides. Strong tides were baseline for his level of intoxication. He thought briefly about getting up to go piss, but he realize he’d have to crawl to the bathroom to do it, so he flopped back down on the bed again, sparking a new bout of rotation.

A manila folder sat on the pillow next to him. He’d meant to open it while he was sober, but he couldn’t manage it, so he’d broken out the whiskey. And now… He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the image of the ever-twirling ceiling fan. “Fuck,” he groaned. An Aztec-style painting of a warrior hung on the wall. He looked over. “Fine, I’ll open it. Will that make you happy?” he asked. The warrior remained silent. Will sighed theatrically and opened the envelope.

He pulled yet another envelope out of it, this one letter-sized. _Will Graham_ was emblazoned on the front in loopy, precise script that could belong to no one but Hannibal Lecter. “Motherfucker,” Will muttered. He thumbed the envelope open and removed a single page.

 

_Dearest Will,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. I expect you didn’t read my last correspondence, and I expect you won’t read this, either. Even so, I feel it my duty to… how should I say? Repent? Yes, to repent in your eyes by aiding you with this new case. The Tooth Fairy. I have unique insight, but I hesitate to include it in a letter, dear boy. And I do mean_ dear _. That meant something to us once, didn’t it? The word_ dear _. But I expect you’ve moved past that. I can’t say I blame you. I am_ Il Mostro _, after all. Then again, you knew that when we had our tryst, didn’t you? Ah, but I’m being too explicit. Frederick will be reading this, after all. But… I would enjoy seeing you again, Will. More than you can know. And, beyond that, I can offer as much help as I can. You must simply collect it in person. I hope you can understand._

_Always yours,_

_Hannibal Lecter_

The letter fluttered to the floor as Will threw it with all his might. It didn’t get very far, as papers won’t. He wished it would’ve gone out the damned window.

“Why do you…” he trailed off. The whiskey had made him hot. It was freezing outside, but… in here it was downright tropical. He peeled off his shirt so the spinning of the fan could reach his naked chest. He sighed contentedly. It felt _good_ , it felt…

He found his hand traveling across his chest. He shuddered when it crossed his nipple. He’d always been sensitive, but now was different. Why should he feel arousal now? He’d just read a letter from his hated enemy, and he was drunk besides, but damned if he hadn’t enjoyed it. He brought his fingers back to his nipple and flicked at it. It felt good. It felt _fucking_ good, and he couldn’t argue against it.

His crotch started to react. He shook his head _no_ and pushed the manila envelope to the ground, the last remnant of Hannibal’s writing. But it didn’t go away. He pictured Hannibal in his cell, writing the letter in his perfect calligraphy.

Not that he’d ever seen Hannibal’s cell. He’d avoided him like the plague after his surrender. “So you’ll always know where I am… or something like that,” Will slurred. Anyone on the outside would’ve called it non-sequitur, but it made sense in his head.

He curled up on his left side in the fetal position. _So silly,_ he thought, _but I really do feel better knowing where you are._ He paused his thoughts, taking a break to shake his head to break the spinning of the room. It only partially worked. “I still…” he said to no one, “If I want to… If _you_ want me to… goddammit.”

His thoughts were fixated on Hannibal. His voice, his face, the stupid three piece suits he always wore… and the body beneath them. God, that body. He’d done unspeakable things to that body once, before “Hannibal Lecter” and “The Chesapeake Ripper” were synonymous. Hell, before “Hannibal Lecter” and “Hannibal the Cannibal” were synonymous, thanks to Chilton. And now all Will could think about after all the whiskey was that fucking body. It was so bad, so _wrong_ , especially with Molly at home, but it was ubiquitous for him. Dr. Lecter’s body. _Hannibal’s_ body.

“Motherfuck…” Will ran his hand across his chest again, but this time it dipped lower. “I want… shit.”

He didn’t know what he wanted overall. But for now, he wanted something primal. He wanted to feel as close to Hannibal as he had three years ago, but he knew he couldn’t. The next best thing… he slid his hand down into his boxers and grasped his limp cock. It wouldn’t be limp for long.

He bucked his hips into the air and reached down with his other hand to tug off his boxers. His cock sprung into the open, hard now, not quite throbbing but well on its way. It was a strange reaction to the letter, he thought, but considering what they’d shared before maybe it was all too normal. It didn’t matter. He was thinking of Hannibal Lecter, and he was hard, and that’s all there was.

He groped along his erection, remembering the way Hannibal had touched him in the same places, the way Hannibal had given such perfect care to his hidden areas. He’d been so _fucking_ careful with his touch, but so sure, so _decided_ in his motions. Will tried to mimic his caresses along his own cock, but he couldn’t. Nothing could compare to the way Hannibal had pleased him. Hannibal’s grasp on Will’s member had been almost artistic, just like everything else in his life. Just like the calligraphy of the letter. Was there a difference to Hannibal? Did he care about one more than the other? Will wished there was, but some part of him knew there was no difference to him. He was blank. Emotionless. But he’d still done thoroughly erotic things with Will.

Will gasped, clutching his erection in his left hand. Hannibal had noted that, saying it was surprising that Will was right handed but stroked with his left. The thought warmed Will to the core as he stroked. He twisted his hand around the head of his cock and remembered the words Hannibal had spoken to them the first time they’d been… entangled. _You have good technique,_ he’d said. _It’s almost artistic._

That had been the biggest compliment of all. _Artistic._ So here he was, running his left hand up and down his cock, twisting _artistically_ , in this shitty fucking motel with whiskey in his belly. He realized with some horror that he was still wearing his wedding ring. He tore it off and slapped it on the end table before he went back to stroking. He couldn’t have Molly involved in this. She couldn’t know about any of it. It would destroy her. And this, even after they’d married…

“Shit,” Will hissed. He threw the thought from his mind. Now all that mattered was his cock, and his hand, and Hannibal Lecter’s body. That was all. He kept stroking, up and down, around, down and up. He bucked his hips against his hand. The fan above him kept spinning, kept spinning in ways he couldn’t view. All he could focus on was his hand and his cock. They were _material_. The spinning of the fan was extraneous. It had a steady motion, just like his hand’s movements were steady, but it was _spinning_ , it was something beyond his drunk man’s comprehension. He thought for a moment that he might turn it off, but that moment turned to pleasure as he twisted his hand around his cockhead.

He felt a torrent of guilt when he remembered his wife. She’d been out of his mind for a while, but… “Molly,” he whispered. He didn’t let up on his stroking. She didn’t have anything to do with it. He’d always known she’d been a cheap replacement for Hannibal. She didn’t know that, of course, but it was what it was. He’d never masturbated over her. He’d masturbated over Dr. Lecter more times than he could count. But now… now it was something more. He knew he had to see him, had to see _Il Mostro_ in person, and it excited him. He dreaded it, sure, but god… just to see him… he picked up the pace on his cock. He was drunk, _so_ drunk, but the only thing he could think of was Hannibal’s body. And Hannibal’s _cock_ , but he wouldn’t let himself think that way. He wouldn’t be so base about Hannibal. They shared a great many things, more than just genitalia could express. How they used those genitalia, though…? That was another thing entirely.

“Special Agent Will Graham,” he murmured. “ _Comes_ to the rescue.” That set him off giggling. He never laughed, but the whiskey had him going, and once he started he couldn’t stop. Laughing and stroking. Stroking and laughing.

It was taking him longer to come than usual, which he attributed to the whiskey. It didn’t matter. He enjoyed the sensation of jerking off for longer, the sense of whipping his hand across his most precious nerves, losing himself in the feeling of it. His thoughts of Molly were fleeting. Mostly he thought of Hannibal. He was imprisoned now, but he could visit him, and they were both imprisoned in different ways, weren’t they? Marriage and incarceration. They allowed conjugal visits, right? He cursed himself at the thought. He was a married man, but no one could ever compare to Hannibal Lecter.

He gasped as he reached the edge of orgasm, but stopped stroking to cease it. He breathed hard, removing his hand to his chest. His balls ached. He drunkenly rolled over to grab the letter from the floor.

_Dearest Will…_

Will held it in front of him and went back to his cock. Up and down, down and up, twisting, stroking, squeezing, teasing. He read the letter as he fucked his hand, bucking his hips in and out, gyrating into his hand. _Dr. Lecter. Hannibal. Hannibal wants me,_ he thought. _Hannibal_ still _wants me._

With that, he felt his climax filling himself from his belly down to his balls and then to his cock. He came like a fountain, spraying his load against his chest and onto the letter from Hannibal that he held up high. The shots of come made it see-through, probably like Hannibal had never intended, but Will knew he would enjoy the result. He _hoped_ Hannibal would enjoy the result. He thrust his hips into the air, blast after blast, until he was satisfied.

He fell back on the bed, breathing heavily. What had he just done? “F… fuck you,” he grunted. The words tasted poisonous in his mouth. He didn’t really mean them. He didn’t mean to be aggressive that way. He wanted Hannibal to… accept him. He wanted to be equals again.

Will felt himself start to cry, and rubbed his tears away with his come-smeared hand. Molly would never understand. Jack would never understand. But… Hannibal would understand. And that scared the hell out of him.

 


End file.
